


(Untitled)

by subito



Category: Political RPF - UK 21st c.
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:25:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subito/pseuds/subito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: <i>Can we have some fic about a heartbroken Michael Gove, staring into his drink and being really sad about no one wanting to have a drink with him? </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	(Untitled)

The bench is hard underneath him, sharp edges digging into the underside of Michael’s legs. He doesn’t care. He almost welcomes the stinging sensation, presses them against the bench on purpose and tightens his grip around the hot cup of tea.

It’s not his usual brand, the one that entertains his senses with a mixture of sweetness and bitterness, and it’s not his usual place to have a cup of tea, like his office or his living room. He sits in the park. On a hard bench, with hot tea and waits. Alone.

He came alone and he waits alone and is almost certain by now that he will go home alone. Again. Without having talked to someone in the meantime.

The wind playfully lifts some of his hair and makes it stand up for a second before letting go and continuing to blow through the leaves, making them whisper. His hair falls back into place, his mind doesn’t.

It’s not the waiting he minds, not the sitting on a bench in a park on his own. He quite enjoys this pastime if he’s honest with himself. What nags at his mind is the fact that he didn’t choose to be alone out there. That he invited people, friendly and repeatedly – and no one ever comes. Ever.

His hand still clutches the cup and absorbs the warmth despite it being a rather hot day. It’s not as warm as it was a few days ago though and when you are as observant as Michael, you notice all those little signs that tell you about the transformation into autumn. There’s a hint of darkness in the corner of the sky and every now and then a stream of air comes through that carries the characteristic chilliness and smells earthy of colourful leaves on dying trees.

Michael suddenly shivers and catches the familiar scent of rain, which won’t come down for another few hours but is undoubtedly there. The warmth of the tea has vanished and he ought to go but he can’t move. Too heavy the thoughts of rejection and not understanding what it is he does wrong. He wishes he’d brought a coat.

When the moon ghostly appears in the still blue but stained with grey sky, he finally gets up, paying no attention to the pain in his legs, which haven’t been moved for hours. He walks slowly, feeling no need to rush, no need to go back to his equally empty flat.

There is more wind and it takes up speed, tearing at Michael’s shirt as he walks through one of the many alleys still thick with green. The sky turns night early under the influence of the storm and Michael is glad he isn’t wearing his glasses. A cloudburst soaks him down to the bone as soon as he leaves the cover of the trees.

Big and heavy drops hammer onto his skin and plaster his hair flat to his head, from where it runs down his head in trickles. The water meanders around his eyes and down his cheeks and there is a tightness in his chest that he tries not to think about as he heads home more quickly.

He doesn’t want to notice that the rain suddenly seems to taste salty.

When he stands in his bathroom a few minutes later, he ignores how much he is actually shaking, ignores the redness of his eyes.

He will wake up in the morning and tell himself that the minor headache and puffiness of his eyes are signs of a little cold. He will go into work and forget about yesterday. He will sit on the front bench and act overly confident, telling himself that a rejection won’t hurt when he asks in front of an audience of whom no one thinks he actually means it. He will smile and attack and enjoy being attacked. Because this is the only time people engage in banter with him, the only time they somewhat appreciate how clever he really is, the only time he feels like there might be someone out there to have a cup of tea with some day.

That’s why he takes their insults with a smile, why he doesn’t mind being humiliated.

Because the bench doesn’t dig into his flesh there. Because there, even hate is a form of love.


End file.
